


After

by koalathebear



Category: Le Silence de La Mer (2004)
Genre: F/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-07
Updated: 2015-09-28
Packaged: 2018-03-21 17:32:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3700949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koalathebear/pseuds/koalathebear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set a few years after the end of the war ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the tiniest fandom in the world :) All my posts on tumblr about this beautiful movie are here: http://koalathebear.tumblr.com/tagged/le-silence-de-la-mer

The day was warm and Jeanne lifted her hair slightly to allow the air to dry the perspiration on the nape of her neck. In the end, she untied her thick blonde hair and reknotted it in a way that made it easier to tuck beneath her hat.

She exhaled as she crouched back down to pull out the weeds that continued to plague the garden. Finally, she rose again, pulling off her gloves and setting them aside as she walked towards the barn. The house seemed larger than ever and the work required to tend the house and gardens was never-ending. 

The war had left an indelible mark on them all. Marie had never returned. Young Pierre had gone to his family in Montmartre. Pascal had been seized by the Gestapo one evening and had also never returned. The story was repeated many times over in the village – so many broken families and stories with no ending.

Jeanne was very much alone now. Her grandfather lay beside her father and mother in the graveyard and Jeanne tended to their graves, placing fresh flowers on their tombstones and visiting when in need of company. Her grandfather's death had been quick and painless, but no less sorrowful. The only consolation was that he had been alive long enough to see the war's end, to know that he left his grand-daughter alone in a world that was at peace.

Jeanne kept to herself. Teaching piano, selling the fruits and vegetables from the orchard and living on the family's meager inheritance. It was enough to get by and she had no complaints.

The solitude only increased the sharpness of her memories … Memories of a face and a voice that grew even clearer with time rather than fainter. She thought of him often, wondered if he lived … and if so, did he think of her? 

The young men in the village admired her slim young figure even as they mocked her plain and shabby clothes, the simple twist of her gold hair and the unpainted beauty of her face. She barely noticed them and the villagers joked that Jeanne Larosière would become a dried up and crotchety old spinster. Jeanne didn't care.

As she approached the barn door, a faint frown furrowed the smoothness of her forehead. The door was ajar and she could have sworn that she had closed it after retrieving her bucket, trowel and gloves.

Stepping inside the darkness, she blinked for a moment, allowing her eyes the time they needed to adjust to the dimness. There was someone else in the barn and her hand tightened around the trowel in her hand. There was very little crime in the village and the police had grown rotund and slow as a result of the sedentary lifestyle … but Jeanne's memories of the war years remained with her.

"Show yourself," she said firmly and her eyes widened as a man stepped out of the shadows. He was a tall man, thin to the point of being gaunt. His blond hair fell over his face, unkempt and ragged. His light eyes were sunken, his movements slow and weak. He was a stranger to her and yet she knew his face as well as she knew her own face.

"You …" she breathed, her breath catching in her throat.

Before her horrified eyes, he collapsed to the ground in front of her, landing heavily in the hay.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Please. No military titles," he said in a low voice. "The war is over … that man is dead," he told her in an expressionless voice.

He heard the music before he opened his eyes, played with a familiar emotion … he could visualise the strong, slender fingers flying across the keyboard and the intent expression on the player's face.

Bach. Prelude No. 21 in B-Flat Major.

He remained very still, just listening for a moment, losing himself in the sound. Finally, he permitted himself to open his eyes and look around. He was still lying in the barn but had been dragged over to a pile of soft, fresh hay and covered with a blanket. A wintery smile twitched his lips. Perhaps there was a benefit to starvation after all. There was no way she would have been able to move him previously … but in his weakened, starved state … it was just possible for her to drag him a few feet across the floor of the barn.

Standing up tentatively, he drew the blanket around his thin shoulders and walked carefully to the doorway of the barn, staring out across the stony yard to the house.

He had clearly been asleep for a few hours for it was now night. The glimmer of a lamp outlined Jeanne's silhouette as she sat at the piano. He stared down at his bleeding feet … they had been washed and bandaged, as had the other injuries on his arms and on his hands … He had no recollection of her ministrations and made his slow way towards the doorway of the house, entering through the front door.

There was a moment's pause in the playing as she heard the door open and close, but then she continued playing with increased intensity. Standing in the doorway, he watched and listened intently. It was like he had never left. The dim lamp cast a warm glow over her face and golden hair that gave her a Madonna-like purity.

"You should sit down," she told him as she continued to play.

He hesitated. "I would not want to put mud and dirt on your furniture, mademoiselle," he told her very formally and she paused in her playing and turned to look at him.

"It is just furniture and it can be cleaned. But you must be hungry," she remarked and rose to her feet, lowering the lid of the piano carefully as she walked past him into the kitchen. She dimmed the lamp and drew the curtains in the window so that none could see inside the room.

"Sit down, lieutenant," she gestured and he held up a hand. 

"Please. No military titles," he said in a low voice. "The war is over … that man is dead," he told her in an expressionless voice.

"Sit down, m'sieur," she said instead and he nodded and sat at the small wooden table, eyes widening as she set a jug of water before him, a glass and brought him a large bowl of stew.

Wordlessly, she placed a crust of bread beside his bowl and then sat down across from him. "I ate earlier," she replied to his unspoken question and after a moment's hesitation, he began to eat. He was clearly starving but good manners still managed to prevail as he ate in a measured and orderly manner. When he drained the glass of water, she filled it up again from the jug.

"You received [my letter](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1153836)?" he asked, a question in his eyes as well as in his words.

Jeanne nodded. "I did …"

"I shouldn't have sent it."

"I'm glad you did," she told him with a flicker of a smile in her eyes even though her face remained grave. "When no more letters came – I feared that you had been killed."

The tales of the hell that was the Russian front had reached even her quiet village. Whenever the stories were in the newspaper, her grandfather would glance across at her sharply, searchingly as if trying to detect any sign of emotion or response.

After Von Ebrennac's departure they never spoke of him again – but Jeanne had thought of him often and she suspected her grandfather had known as much even though he had never said anything.

She rose to her feet. "I need to go and bring the cows in – but you should go and rest. Your room is as it was," she told him.

"I could help you – "

"You can barely stand. Go and rest. I won't be long." 

She drew a shawl around her shoulders before going out into the dark field with a lantern to bring her two cows back into the barn. They were placid creatures of habit so the task involved little more than calling their names and walking towards the barn, the large creatures walking behind her.

She returned to the house, shivering slightly from the cold. She locked the door behind her and walked into the kitchen. She was a little startled to find that the German had washed up after himself, drying and putting away the plates, bowl and cutlery. 

Upstairs, Werner could hear her light tread coming up the stairs and he stood by the closed door of his room, his breathing shallow. He knew that should not have returned … that his presence compromised her reputation, her very safety … And yet he was here.

She paused outside the door of his room.

"Bonne nuit," she breathed, her fingertips resting lightly against the door.

"Bonne nuit," he whispered in a low voice and she smiled. It had been a long time since she had smiled. 

Werner lay in the narrow bed staring at the ceiling. Closing his eyes, he pushed the Russian words from his thoughts, the German words – banishing with them the blood that stained his nightmares. He lingered on the French words, seeing images of sunlight blazing through tousled blonde hair and wariness in clear blue eyes.

He drifted off into sleep, wondering if the nightmares would plague him as they for the last few years or if perhaps tonight would be different …


	3. Matin

Werner awoke gradually to the light of the sun beating through the thin fabric of the curtains. Closing his eyes for a moment, he took in the sound of bird song, smelled the aroma of strong black coffee as he lay in the narrow bed. He could hear movement in the kitchen below - footsteps, the sound of cupboard doors opening and closing...

His throat tightened. It felt like home.

He got out of bed with an effort, wincing slightly at the pain in his feet. Nonetheless, he completed his morning ablutions in good time, pulling on the clothes that Jeanne had retrieved from the attic. Old clothes, clearly mended time and time again, hanging loosely on his tall narrow frame.

He made his way downstairs, gripping the handrail for support and stood in the doorway of the kitchen for a moment, watching her as she moved around the room. Her hair was unbraided, falling about her shoulders in a loose cloud of pale gold. Her movements were quick and incisive as she set the table, glancing up, eyes very grave and serious as they caught sight of him in the entrance of the room.

She gestured towards the plain wooden table in the kitchen that she had set for two. Simple fare - butter, jam, a baguette sliced into pieces and a bowl of fresh fruit. It looked like a feast to him.

She turned away from him momentarily to prepare the coffee. He came to stand behind her, not touching her but close enough to touch her. He stared down at her lowered head, eyes dark and haunted. She became very still, swallowing hard as she became conscious of him standing directly behind her.

"You don't need to serve me," he said finally, his voice harsh and abrupt. Jeanne moved back just the tiniest distance ... leaning towards him ... His eyes widened and he breathed deeply of the soft fragrance of her hair.

He reached down to touch the back of her hand that rested on the kitchen countertop. She had the hands of a woman who worked. Strong, chapped and unlovely to others but strangely beautiful to him.

He moved slowly and cautiously, turning her lightly so that he could draw her into his arms gently. She was wary, like a woodland creature who could bolt at the slightest sudden movement and he gave her ample opportunity to say no, to pull away. Eventually she gave a soft, imperceptible sigh and rested her cheek against his chest, leaning against him. For Werner, it had been years since he had been so close to another human being, held another person so closely. For Jeanne, it had been even longer - her grandfather had not been an affectionate or demonstrative man and she had eyed the mothers and children in the village with envious, wistful eyes.

Werner's arms went around her tightly and he pressed a light kiss to her hair as she felt the steady thud of his heartbeat against her chest.

Jeanne looked up into his face and his eyes were shuttered and haunted as his thumb brushed away the tears that slid down her cheek silently. "Come, take a seat please," he told her, drawing out a chair for her. He poured her coffee for her, then the milk, prepared a crust of bread for her ... serving her awkwardly before taking a seat opposite her.

A smile curved her pale, full mouth as he peeled an apple for her, cutting the pieces and offering her a piece. Again, it had been a very, very long time since she had been served or pampered by anyone. 

They ate their breakfast in companionable silence with long speaking glances exchanged across coffee cups. Their many, many questions remained unasked and unanswered – for now.


End file.
